Jigsaw's Mindgames
by Delightfully Wicked
Summary: Ch.1 A professor who is unfair to his students. Ch.2 An athlete who uses drugs and abuses his wife.
1. The Professor

"Hello, Professor." The voice rasped from the recorder. He'd found it on his desk. "You may be wondering who I am, but I assure you that isn't what's important. What's important is who you are, and what I can offer you."  
He looked at the recorder. Who had left it here? Why?  
"We're going to play a game. Day after day you encounter hundreds of different people. You wield the power to help them succeed in life, or to ultimately send them spiraling down into the rat-hole of mediocrity. You can make them feel important to you, to others, and boost their self-confidence. Or you can turn them against their friends, their peers, and most horrid of all: Themselves."  
He'd read about this in the paper, and seen it on the news, but never thought it would happen to him.  
"What I have to offer you, Professor, is appreciation. From the students you teach to the life you live, you don't seem to appreciate much."  
He picked up the phone and dialed 911, but discovered the line was cut.  
"Precautions must be taken, and steps must be watched, Professor Thomason. You've been poisoned, but there is hope. It is a very simple poison, any hospital can give you an antidote, but for now, it would be in your best interest if you were to stay right where you are."  
He stopped at the door. If there was more to the riddle, he should hear it. Jigsaw was known for giving hints and clues in his messages.  
"There is a warehouse not far from here. You can go to the warehouse and receive the antidote there, or you can risk running to the hospital, pumping the poison further into your veins."  
He would have to run. That morning his car was stolen. Now he knew why. The hospital was about five blocks away, to the east. The warehouse, however, was only three blocks away, and to the west.

"You're not allowed to come in contact with anyone aside from the doctors at the hospital or me at the warehouse." The message continued, "For there are more ways to die than one, and poison can be the least of your worries. Will you choose the right answer on this 'test'? Or will the final bell ring before you get to finish? The choice is yours. Good day, Professor, for it may very well be your last."  
He grabbed his coat and walked out the door, doing his best to look calm and carefree as he made his way down the school hallways. Why him? What had he done?  
_"From the students you teach to the life you live, you don't seem to appreciate much."  
_ What did he know? He was a mass murderer. He wouldn't know what it's like to deal with one hundred kids a day. One hundred wise cracking, smart mouthing, disrespectful kids. If he did, he just killed them. That was, after all, what killers do.  
He walked out the school doors and headed west. The warehouse would be his best bet, because then he'd have Jigsaw's fingerprints, description, and location to give to the police afterwards.  
It took him about an hour and a half to reach the warehouse, because he was walking, and walking slowly. Every step could be his last, and who knows when or how Jigsaw had given him the poison?  
It could have been any number of times or ways. In his food, his water, while he slept… _Or yesterday. _He thought.  
Yesterday he'd gone to the hospital for his monthly check-up, and the doctor recommended a new medicine to relieve stress. Jigsaw could be anyone, including that doctor, and the poison could be anything, including that medicine. He'd only taken one pill, but that would be all it took.  
_I'll soon find out._ He thought as he opened the warehouse door.  
"Hello?" He called.  
"Hello." A raspy voice answered, "Please, do come in. And shut the door, it's cold outside."  
The professor shut the door and took a few steps forward, but stopped, deciding the least amount of movement before he got the antidote would be best.  
Jigsaw then proceeded down some metal stairs that had led to a walkway up above. His footsteps echoed as hetook each slow and deliberate step, interrupted every now and then by a very hoarse cough.  
He was wearing a black cloak with red linings, his head bent low and the hood pulled over his face as he walked towards the professor. He stopped about five feet away from the professor, reached into his inner pockets, and pulled out a small vile containing a purplish liquid.  
He bent down and rolled the glass vile over the dirt floor to the professor, who picked it up eagerly and took out the stopper. He drank the entire thing in one gulp.  
"I'm afraid to tell you, Professor," He rasped, "That you were never poisoned."  
"What?" The professor dropped the vile in surprise, but quickly bent down to pick it up again. He collapsed, clasping his heart and moaning.  
"_That_ was the poison." Jigsaw said as he picked up the empty vile and began to walk away, "I did say, after all, that it would be in your best interest to stay where you were."  
"But…" The dying man gasped, "That's not _fair!_" He was sweating profusely as the poison took its tulle.  
"Life's lessons aren't fair." He replied as he began his ascension up the stairs.  
The professor gasped as he recognized the irony of this statement: It was what he had told most of his students over the many years he'd taught at that college.  
"Life isn't fair," Jigsaw repeated, "And yours has come to an end."


	2. Joey

He awoke slowly. He opened his eyes, but quickly scrunched them shut again as a searing pain shot through his head. A hangover. Had he been drugged?

He rose to his feet slowly. He took a step, only to be pulled back by his left leg. He fell down again. He opened his eyes. Everything was blurry at first, but as his vision cleared he saw that he wasn't wearing any clothes. The next thing he noticed was a chain attached to his left leg.

His heart began to race, and he looked at his surroundings. He was in a very large, empty, rusty brown room. He looked to see what the chain was attached to: A wall with jutting spikes.

"Help!" He shouted, "Somebody help me!"

No answer.

He looked around. There had to be something he could use!

That's when he saw it. Lying on the dirt floor next to him. A tape-recorder. He shakily picked it up, hesitant of what it may reveal to him. He pressed play.

"Hello, Joey." A voice rasped from the recorder. "I want to play a game."

_A game? What kind of a sick game is this? _He thought as he stared at the tape-recorder with a mixture of fear and disbelief.

"Being a professional athlete, I'm sure you're used to games. Both on the track, and off."

_What?_

"Being an athlete is no easy task. You must train yourself, and keep your body healthy. Why, then, did you resort to drugs? Or begin abusing your wife? Of course, the reason you abuse your wife is because you're on drugs, which brings us back to our first question."

_How could he possibly know these things?_

"The game I want to play is very simple. In fact, you've played it hundreds of times. It's a simple sprint to the door at the end of the room, and to your freedom."

Joey looked up from the tape-recorder to see a plain wooden door on rusty hinges at the end of the room.

"The problem is," the voice continued, "when you run, those drugs you take hold you back, keeping you from realizing your full potential, and thus obtaining freedom and appreciation. So is the chain that you've undoubtedly noticed attached to your ankle. There's a spring attached to the chain, and just like drugs, the further you get, the more you're held back. And just like drugs, it will eventually pull you back far enough that it kills you." The voice paused and coughed hoarsely before continuing, "The key to your problems, and your chain, is in the middle of the room. Good luck."

Joey looked back at the wall with spikes sticking out of it. Now he understood. If he tried to get too far, the chain would pull him back into the spikes. He looked around the room. He could spot a small box sitting in the middle of the room, most likely with the key inside of it, but there was nothing he could use to pull himself to it, or to keep hold of when he had to open the box, get the key, and unlock his chain.

He took an experimental step forward, pulling his left leg hesitantly, testing the chain, and more importantly, the spring. There was a little resistance. He lifted up his right foot to take another step, only to be yanked off his feet by the chain moving suddenly towards the wall, followed shortly by the creaking sound of a spring that had just been pulled back and let go of.

"Damned spring…" he muttered to himself. He gasped in realization.

Of course! Why didn't he think of it before? He crawled over to the wall where the spring was attached, and where the spikes starting jutting out. He carefully wedged his hand between the spikes, reaching his way to where the spring should be located. Soon he could feel it.

"Ha!" he shouted triumphantly, "Not as clever as you thought!"

He pulled on the spring, trying to pull it loose, but it was fixed tight. He tried again. Still no budge. This time he pulled as hard as he could, and he could feel the spring pull a little. He kept pulling until…  
"Sonofa_bitch!_" he shouted angrily, pulling his hand back suddenly. The spring had clipped his fingers when it closed again.

He looked around the room desperately. He called for help a few times, but to no avail. It was then he spotted a small triangular block jutting out of the floor, not far from where he was.

"What the hell is this for?" he asked irritably. It was close enough that he could reach it with ease. He looked at it intently for a period of time before he realized it was a starting block, like those used before a race. The tape-recorder's words echoed in his mind, _"a simple sprint to the door at the end of this room…"_

He would have to literally run in order to put enough force into the spring to get anywhere. But if he ran, the spring would undoubtedly pull him into the jagged wall.

_Maybe I can grab onto it as I slide by…_ he thought.

He walked over to the block, and felt a little bit of resistance from the spring, but not much. He grabbed the block and pulled on it, testing how firmly it was planted in the ground. To his surprise, it came out with ease. It definitely wasn't strong enough to grab onto if the spring pulled him back.

He sighed in frustration and put the starting block back in it's place. He couldn't just stay in this room… What if no one found him? What would his wife think?

If I could do it all again, I would… 

That's when the tears came.

John took a deep breath from the oxygen mask and turned back to the monitor. What he saw disgusted him. The man he'd brought was crying now, having lost all hope. He'd only been in the game for an hour.

John sighed. He'd had such hope for this one. He thought for sure that Joey would pass through the game with ease. He'd been sure that he would have successfully taught Joey appreciation, and that Joey would, in turn, begin to teach appreciation to others. After all, Amanda did.

The figure on the monitor placed the starting block back in it's place, and soon knelt into a running position.

John leaned towards the monitor with interest. Perhaps there was hope, after all.

He knew what must be done. Whoever did this had left him no choice but to comply. It was his only hope.

He put the starting block in it's place, and then knelt into a running position, making sure his left foot was on the block.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, imagining the race. He imagined the other runners lined up beside him, and he imagined his coach telling him not to look back. He saw, in his mind's eye, the gun being raised into the air. He imagined the gun firing, signaling the race to begin, and he was off.

John watched as the man on the monitor struggled against the spring, but slowly yet surely made his way towards the key.

He watched with interest as the man swiped the box off the ground, but continued his way towards the door. The man struggled to continue on, though his progress slowed dramatically as he got closer to the door.

What interested John was the fact that the man opened the box and pulled out the key as he struggled towards the door. John could imagine the spring mechanism he'd designed, and placed within the wall, being pulled back, increasing the opposition force.

He'd purposely designed it so that Joey couldn't make it to the door while the chain was attached to his leg. He'd told Joey in his message, _"when you run, those drugs you take hold you back, keeping you from realizing your full potential, and thus obtaining freedom and appreciation. So is the chain that you've undoubtedly noticed attached to your ankle."_. The only way he would be able to reach his freedom was to detach the chain and lose his drug habits.

John sighed once again. He'd had such hope for this one.

He watched as Joey was yanked off his feet and dragged rapidly towards the wall of spikes. He saw the key fly from Joey's hands, and watched with empathy as Joey uselessly groped for the key as the chain continued to drag him towards the wall.

He rose from his chair and took another deep breath from the oxygen mask. He made his way to the elevator, and pushed the button to go down. He waited patiently as it brought him down into an empty hallway. He walked slowly down the hallway, passing various rooms, some from which he could hear screaming, others from which he could hear nothing.

He didn't bring all of his 'students' to his warehouse. Just a few. Only the ones he saw hope for, or a greater purpose in his future lessons.

At last he came to a small wooden door on rusty hinges. There had been red arrows painted on the wall, pointing to the way out. There were also a pile of clothes, folded neatly, lying just outside the door. On top of them was a card.

He ignored these and walked into the room. There, at the far end of the room, held up by the spikes that impaled him, was Joey. John truly felt sorry for this man. Not for what he'd done to him, but for the fact that the man had been unable to win.

He pulled out a knife from a hidden pocket beneath his cloak. He never looked forward to this part, but he saw it as necessary. He doubted anyone would find the body here, but he still felt as though it should be done.

Carefully and slowly, he first made the basic outline of a jigsaw piece on the man's upper thigh. He saw it fitting it be on the man's thigh, as Joey had been a runner. Once this was done, he dug the knife deeper under the skin, carefully cutting away the muscles and tendons that lie beneath until at last the trademark of his work was plain and visible. He took a napkin from his pocket and cleaned the blood around the jigsaw piece he'd carved into the man's skin. Once that was done, he cleaned the knife, sheathed it, and made his way to the door. He left the tape-recorder where it was. It reminded him all too much of why Joey was here, and how he had failed miserably. Besides, if the police found the body…

_ If…._ What a powerful word. It only had two letters, and yet it could have the utmost impact on a person's life.

He stopped and picked up the clothes he'd laid out by the door. He'd had such hope. As he walked down the hallway, back to his workroom, he silently read the card he'd typed out in high hopes of the man's victory.

_Congratulations, Joey, you lived through our little game. Maybe now you can learn to appreciate your life, and all that it has given you. I have high hopes for you. What happens to you now depends entirely on your choices… I am hope you make the right ones, for if you do not, there will be consequences._


End file.
